


By Bonds and Blood

by estelraca



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, Romantic Antics in Paris, Werewolf Bahorel, Werewolves On The Barricades
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-12
Updated: 2020-06-11
Packaged: 2021-03-03 22:40:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,009
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24673255
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/estelraca/pseuds/estelraca
Summary: Bahorel is sent to Paris to try to shift power and public sentiment in ways that will assist his pack.  While there he finds a great many friends, including a certain poet that Bahorel thinks would be just as at home in the wild as he is in Paris' twisting streets.
Relationships: Bahorel/Jean Prouvaire
Comments: 3
Kudos: 6





	By Bonds and Blood

**Author's Note:**

  * For [PilferingApples](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PilferingApples/gifts).



> For PilferingApples, who is wonderful and patient and a beacon of light for this fandom.
> 
> Warning for implications of attempted sexual assault in the first section of this, and for violent werewolf justice.

_By Blood and Bonds_

_Chapter One_

Bahorel hunts.

That's not _entirely_ true. _Corentin_ hunts, but since this is a proper hunt he prefers to think of himself by his pack name—as _Bahorel_. This is _justice_ that he's meting out, after all. This is Bahorel stepping up to see that the pack's guardianship of their land doesn't falter.

The man runs from him, the occasional high, thin scream slipping from his mouth. The sounds don't travel far. The man doesn't have the technique of it, doesn't know what pitches to hit or how to use his air to send the sound out from his body.

Not that there's anyone around to help him, anyway. The only other person nearby is the woman that Bahorel is protecting this man from, and Bahorel doubts she would have challenged one of _le loup_ even before this piece of human trash tried to take advantage of her.

She's a local, after all. She grew up on tales of the beasts that haunt these hills and protect those within their demesne. She knows that there are certain rules that are followed, and even if she thinks Bahorel a monster and a demon—that is what the Church has said for the last two hundred years, after all—she knows that he is a demon bound by God's will to protect those who live here.

Never mind that it isn't God's will that guides his feet. The wolves here have their rules, and if the humans obey those rules then they are afforded the same protections as everyone else in the territory.

Something this newcomer knows, because Bahorel explained it to him at the tavern earlier in the week. Twice. _There are things that aren't done here,_ he had said, not smiling in response to the traveler's ribald 'joke'.

If one can't be civilized, then one had best be strong, and this man is neither.

Bahorel doesn't toy with him. Justice isn't a game, after all. Not ten minutes after the hunt begins, Bahorel's teeth sink into flesh.

The screaming stops very soon after that, and Bahorel makes sure the corpse is well and truly dealt with before going home to see what his elders will think of his method of handling the problem.

***

“You're a reckless idiot.”

Bahorel can feel the growl rumbling in his chest, and it takes all his will not to raise his yellow-amber eyes to fix on the uncle who spoke. He is not intent on challenging for his place in the pack. Not yet.

Not _ever_ , he is beginning to think. If he were to truly challenge, he thinks, he would be fighting his parents for their alpha position, and that is not what he wants to do.

Which means he will have to leave, soon. He is already twenty summers in the world, and he chafes more and more at his place among the puppies.

Perhaps this will be the final action that sees him heading out to find his fate.

“Not an idiot.” It's his father's voice that answers, the old wolf's words slow and thoughtful. “Reckless, perhaps, but not an idiot.”

Bahorel raises his chin a bit, taking the opening to speak in his own defense. “There will be no body found. I ensured it. All that will get back to the other humans is the girl's tale, if she speaks of it at all.”

His uncle scoffs again. “You can't be sure no one else heard anything or saw anything. This is exactly the type of stupid stunt that brings down the hunters on our heads.”

“No, it's not.” His mother's voice so early in the debate is something that Bahorel hadn't expected, and his head jerks to take in the alpha's gaze. Her eyes are the same amber as his, striking beneath her salt-and-pepper hair, and they study him with frank assessment. “I studied the scene. It was well done. But still it was done without us.”

“You just favor him because he's yours.” His uncle's bitter words are spoken softly, but with wolf ears even soft words tend to be heard.

His mother stands, her actions still smooth and easy despite the age that shows on her face. “Accuse me of favoritism again, Eloi.”

“I...” For a moment Eloi's lips slide back from his teeth, and then he looks away with a sigh. “I cannot in good conscience. I apologize, Alpha. But the boy had no right to take matters into his own hands without contacting someone else.”

“Corentin, would you step outside and give us a few minutes to debate?” His mother doesn't look at him, instead surveying the thirteen adult pack members sitting in a crowded circle.

Corentin bows and picks his way to the door, his head high the whole time. He can wait, if that's what's needed of him.

He can attempt to eavesdrop, though it isn't as successful as it once had been. He's been caught at this too many times, the little chinks and imperfections in the house fixed so that sound doesn't carry nearly as easily to the porch as it once did. The adults have learned, too, their voices held modulated save for the occasional sharp exclamation. Bahorel keeps his head tilted, gathering each word and escaping phrase and trying to follow the shape of the conversation.

“—young—”

“—strong—”

“—too soon—”

“—not _our_ troubles—”

“— _something_ must be _done_ —”

“Thank you for your time.” His mother's voice cuts across the muttering wolves, bringing silence in its wake. “I know what must be done now, as do you all. The pack is dismissed for the day. We'll gather in two day's time for the farewell.”

Bahorel's eyes widen, but he forces himself to take a step away from the wall, to stand calm and steady as the pack empties out of the house.

His father is the second-to-last to leave, and his eyes flick up and down Bahorel before he smiles and gives his head a fond, exasperated shake.

Bahorel has no idea how to interpret the gesture. It's a _familiar_ movement, one he's seen his father make about or towards him a thousand times, but right _now_ , what does it mean?

Finally his mother exits, and she crooks her fingers. “Walk with me, Corentin.”

He falls in line, walking to the left and slightly behind his mother.

She waits until they're out of earshot of the rest of the pack, the fields stretching out on either side of them. “How much were you able to hear?”

“You think I was eavesdropping?” Bahorel feigns shock.

His mother shoots a fae grin back at him, her canines visible, and lifts one eyebrow.

Bahorel shrugs. “You've done a good job with the soundproofing. I only caught the occasional word. Enough to know that everyone thinks I am both too young and too old, and to know that the pack is still debating whose troubles we are to get involved in and whose we are to leave alone.”

His mother nods. “That's a debate as old as packs, and one that I don't think we're going to find an easy solution to soon. But it's also one I have solid opinions about. This is my pack, and though I can't control everything that happens in the wider world, I can at least acknowledge that what happens in the wider world impacts us.”

Bahorel nods, watching his mother with a growing curiosity. He's heard her talk about this before, of course—about how they have a duty to ensure their territory is safe, yes, but how part of ensuring that safety is also paying attention to what the humans are doing both on their territory and off it. Humans aren't like wolves, after all. They move frequently, building and breaking packs on what seem like strange whims. They kill easily; they enslave even more easily, though fewer and fewer of them like to call it slavery these days.

“You're getting older, Corentin.” His mother stops, turning to face him. “And you're not like your siblings.”

“Well.” Bahorel forces a smile, though his heart is beating hard in his chest. “That depends on what siblings you're talking about.”

His mother comes closer, reaching out to brush her hand through his hair before gathering him into a hug. “You're not like either of the sets of twins. You're not going to settle down happily here, either with our pack or with one of the neighbors. Not without bloodshed and the deposing of an alpha somewhere.”

He wants to argue, to tell her that she's wrong, but he knows in his heart that it's true. He's known that's it's true for the last year, but admitting it would mean having to _do_ something about it. Because if he doesn't want to challenge someone, then he's going to have to leave—to strike out somewhere else, somewhere that he doesn't know the rules and the wolves.

If he doesn't want to fight his own mother, his older siblings, the adults he's known his whole life and more-or-less respected, then he'll have to go fight someone _else's_ unknown parents.

“Perhaps the triplets will be like you.” His mother pulls back, and she's smiling despite the gravity of her gaze. “Six years old and already full of trouble and terrible ideas. But they have time. _You_ don't, especially not if you're going to be laying down pack law.”

“So you're sending me away.” Bahorel nods, accepting the sentence with as much calm as he can. He isn't going to make her chase him away with her teeth. He cares too much about his family to do that to them. Besides, if he wants to make this a fight, he might as well just go for her position.

“In a way. But if you'd be willing...” His mother draws a long, slow breath.

Bahorel follows suit. Scents flood his nose and coat his tongue, dirt and plants and rodents and the small, feisty cats who have learned to live among wolves.

His mother exhales, a quick, sharp release of tension along with her breath. “I'd like you to keep your pack-name. I'd like you to go to Paris, to be my eyes and ears there. To be the _pack's_ eyes and ears, and to help us steer matters where we need them to go.”

Bahorel blinks. “To _Paris_? But... loup don't live in the city!”

“But the city is where the humans are making their decisions, and those decisions are rolling out to impact all our lives. How many governments have we seen come and go in just the twenty years of your life? And yet already there are more calls for reform, for revolution, for _change_. I want to understand it. I want to _shape_ it, if we can, so that our lands stay as safe as we can make them.”

A chill runs down Bahorel's spine. “You think they'll try to take our territory? But... it's farmland. There's always need of farmland and farmers. That's how we've kept it all these years.”

“There is always need of farmland and farmers, but who those farmers are, _that_ can change rapidly.” His mother closes her eyes, and for a moment the alpha leans against Bahorel, her right fist wrapped tight in his shirt. “I'm older than you. I've seen more. I've seen the bloodbaths of more wars. I've seen wolves go into hiding to avoid conscription, because to be conscripted is to risk ruination for all of us. So far I and the alphas before me have kept the pack safe, but I don't know how long we can continue it. I don't know how long I _want_ to continue just hiding, waiting for the wrong people to seize power.”

“You think we can help the right people seize power?” Bahorel turns the idea over and over in his head. To go to the city—what a thought! Not just _a_ city, either, but _the_ city, with more people than Bahorel has ever met in his life...

“I think we'll have to. I think if we really want to keep what we have—no, to make what we have _better_ , for your younger siblings, for everyone who is to come in our lines—then we need to be involved.” His mother pulls away from him, her display of vulnerability ended. “What do you say, son? Will you be a spy for me?”

Bahorel's lips pull back from his teeth, and he knows if his tail were visible it would be high and wagging. “I will wear our pack name with pride, and I will do what I can for our people.”

Reaching up, his mother ruffles his hair, her scent flushing with pride. “That's all I would ever ask of you. Now, go do what needs doing if you're going to be leaving in two days.”

Bahorel doesn't need to be told twice, bounding off to tell his siblings, younger and older, about the adventure he's going to be undertaking.

***

The city is nothing and everything like Bahorel expected.

There are factions among the humans, and his mind keeps trying to make those factions act like packs, but they aren't. Though human families tend to belong to the same factions, they don't always. Assuming one even gets to _meet_ all members of a human family. It seems the higher-ranked humans are, the more likely they are to treat the female members of their factions like sheep. Bahorel can't imagine his mother or older sister or any of his aunts tolerating the treatment he sees and hears about, but he also can't do anything to stop it, so he just files the information away as more facts to send home.

The more powerful human factions aren't terribly interested in Bahorel, anyway. He's a peasant from an uncivilized part of the country, and though his pack has given him a very generous stipend, it can't compare to the wealth some humans throw around.

If he were wealthier, had some great title to earn people's respect, he suspects the humans wouldn't have been so quick to notice that he's a little... different than what they're expecting.

He tries to act as much like they do as he possibly can. He _tries_ to be innocuous like a spy should be, slinking through this territory that isn't his. But sometimes a scent catches his attention, something unique, and he acts before he thinks. Like the scent drawing him now, a rich, heady, almost-but-not-quite-human blend—

“Good lord, man, did you just _smell_ me?”

Bahorel blinks, lifting his right hand to touch his nose. He grins in lieu of answering, knowing from prior experience that no words he can give will be safe. If he says the gentleman smells good, or that the monkey on the man's shoulder smells good, at best he'll end up flirting; at worst he'll be called a deviant. A grin gives nothing for the other man to grab onto, and continuing to make a scene over something that no one else might have seen isn't what most humans want to do.

True to form the man in front of Bahorel glances around, sees that they have no audience, adjusts his waistcoat with a huff, and stomps off down the road.

Bahorel scratches at the back of his head, his scalp itching as though he has fleas again. It's terribly easy to pick up either fleas or lice or both in some of the more crowded environs of Paris, something Bahorel learned before he'd been in the city a week. Thankfully the pack has tricks for taking care of the blasted parasites, and they work just as well here as they did back home. Which means that Bahorel most likely _doesn't_ have fleas; he's just itchy with the proximity of so many humans.

Turning down street after street, Bahorel maneuvers his way through the clots of people. He can _almost_ understand the way they bunch and move now. In a few more weeks, perhaps he'll be able to send more useful information home.

Especially if his contact tonight proves as interesting as he seems.

The young man in question, a student at the university, charges out into the street to wave Bahorel down. “Here, chap!” Theobald smiles brightly at Bahorel, his scent nothing but joy. “I'm glad you could make it.”

“Wouldn't miss it for the world.” Bahorel returns the smile, reaching out to clap Theobald on the shoulder before thinking better of it. Humans are less tactile than wolves, much to Bahorel's regret.

If Theobald minds Bahorel's touches, though, he doesn't let it show in scent or face. “You're going to _love_ this, I swear it.”

“I do hope so. You promised me song and poems and...” Bahorel pauses, allowing his smile to widen. “ _Interesting_ conversation.”

Theobald laughs, dragging Bahorel into the building Theobald had been standing in front of prior to Bahorel's arrival. “Just you wait.”

The room is filled with people, the humans pressed against each other, laughing and cheering and shouting at each other. The scent of alcohol and stronger substances cuts through the reek of warm human flesh. Theobald makes sure to get a glass each for himself and Bahorel before steering Bahorel towards a group of people.

“There are _women_!” Bahorel makes the exclamation a bit louder than he intended to.

One of the women, perhaps his age or a little older, turns to him with a raised eyebrow. “Indeed there are.”

“I meant no offense.” Bahorel tries on a cheerful smile, noting that _this_ particular woman is dressed in clothes more likely to be found on a man—trousers and a waistcoat that fit her quite well. If not for her scent, he's not sure he would have noticed that she is female at all. The woman continues to stare at him. “I'm just...” Still not used to human social mores, and not sure how to tell this human that he's _glad_ to see her here, mingling with these men as an equal and not as part of the decoration.

“He truly doesn't.” Theobald claps Bahorel on the arm. “Bahorel, this is Aurore. You should watch out for her—she's going to be a literary force to be reckoned with.”

Aurore smiles. “Don't try to flatter me.”

“It's not flattery, it's truth.” Theobald leans a bit closer to theatrically stage-whisper into Bahorel's ear. “She is also married, so be careful in your approach.”

Aurore's eyebrow arches again. “She's quite capable of announcing her own familial status with her own voice, thank you very much. And acting on it as she sees fit.” A wry smile touches her lips. “Which, right now, is not much. What brings you here...?”

“Bahorel.” The pack name falls from his lips easily, the part of his identity that he has kept front and center to keep his sanity as he muddles through a world that isn't his own. “Corentin Bahorel. Peasant, philosopher, student, though not in the way that any university would approve of.”

“I think that frequently makes the best kind of student.” Aurore pulls out a cigarette, turning it between her fingers. Bahorel tries not to stare, though he's aware that smoking also isn't something human woman are encouraged to do. Aurore doesn't light the cigarette yet, though, instead studying him before asking, “Do you write?”

“I can read and write quite well, thank you.”

Theobald laughs. “No, man. Do you _create_. That's what half of us do here, and what the other half aspire to do.”

Bahorel considers the question. “I sing, and the storytelling tradition is strong in my family.” Oral teaching, especially song, is how the pack passes down knowledge generation to generation. “I am still learning what the arts in Paris mean.”

“Which is why I brought him here.” Theobald leans closer to Aurore. “Just you wait. What he lacks in form, he makes up for in power, and with some mentoring from people here—I think this man will be someone to watch out for.”

“I look forward to it.” Aurore means it, Bahorel thinks, her scent having shifted to something just a bit more pleasant than neutrality.

Before Bahorel can get more involved in a conversation with Aurore, Theobald is pulling him onward, introducing him to a dozen other people. Their names and scents slip and slide through Bahorel's mind, hard for him to organize without understanding the nature of this group's hierarchy.

Then the recitations begin, and Bahorel finds himself transfixed.

It's not like the pack's storytelling time. It's not like the songs they sing that hold their history and their moral stances. But it _is_ like that, in some ways. These people are sharing poems and bits of stories that they crafted, and in those shared flashes Bahorel thinks he is beginning to understand who these people are.

More than that, he's beginning to think he _likes_ them.

Aurore is one of the younger speakers, but her words hold his attention rapt, and he finds himself having to hold back yips and whines of either agreement or distress. He is supposed to be _human_. That means he should react in human ways, even if what she paints with her words—the joy of the hunt, the relish of a family standing together—resonates with the core of Bahorel's being.

When finally she's done Bahorel can't quite keep a whimper from escaping his lips. He wants her to keep speaking. He wants to feel like he's _home_ , at least for a moment.

Theobald touches his shoulder once more, and Bahorel gets a whiff of both concern and arousal from the man. How do humans _deal_ with being in heat every day of their lives?

“I'm fine.” Bahorel swallows any additional noises, reminding himself that he is supposed to be human. “That was impressive.”

“Wasn't it?” Theobald is starting to sway just a bit with drink.

Aurore is in front of them before Bahorel can decide whether or not he wants to continue the conversation. Her eyes are alight, her scent strong with adrenaline. “You can do it here, you know. If you want.”

Bahorel blinks at her.

Leaning closer, Aurore's lips practically brush his ear. “If you want to howl, then do so. You won't find a safer place to be yourself in all of Paris.”

Bahorel knows that he shouldn't. He knows that he is supposed to be careful—that there is no one here to protect him if people realize that he's not human. But he has been drinking, too, and the night has been glorious, and these people—ah, he _wants_ them to be a pack where he can belong.

Throwing back his head, he howls, the sound permeating the environment and overpowering every other conversation.

When he runs out of air, the sound trails off, leaving only silence in its wake.

A silence that is broken by laughter and claps.

Aurore's smile has become a feral grin, and she steps close again to speak into his ear. “Most places in Paris you shouldn't do that. Most places they would call you _loup_ or _lycanthrope_ as an insult. But here, with these people—if you support them, they will support you. And you will have a place to be safe, if you wish to stay. If you wish to learn.”

Does she know what he is? He isn't sure, and he doesn't know if it matters. _She_ is human; her scent tells him as much. But she is a human who isn't following the typical rules of human social interaction, and this pack... this pack is supporting her in it.

This pack is supporting a great many things that Bahorel thinks his mother would like.

When Theobald puts his arm around Bahorel's shoulders to steer him towards another knot of people, Bahorel goes with him happily, intending to learn as much as he can about these people and hopefully confirm his impression that this is somewhere he will want to visit many, many times in the future.

**Author's Note:**

> Aurore is a very-much-not-disguised George Sand, who would have been young and not quite as famous as she would become at the time of this chapter. For anyone not familiar with George Sand, she(/they) were a very famous Romantic poet and novelist who ran in the same circles as Hugo (and Borel, whom Bahorel is based on). She was very influential during her lifetime, and bucked social conventions a lot, wearing men's clothing and smoking despite the social mores of the time. If she were alive now she might have identified as nobinary in some way, given quotes from both her and her friends about how she didn't know if she was male or female.


End file.
